| Come Fly With Me |
| Summary: | Cidra gets McQueen back into the fold once the dust of Abbot's arrest has settled. |
| Date: | 16 Jun 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | The Public Weal; Delaying the Inevitable |
| Players: |
  |
| Library - Deck 9 - Battlestar Cerberus |
|---|
| Books and such. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #110 |
Cidra has given McQueen some space since the fateful night of the detainment of Rear Admiral Abbot. Or near-mutiny. Whatever name one wants to append to it. She's attempting to track him down tonight, however. She's off duty. Freshly so, it appears, as she's not changed out of her blues yet. Though the jacket is unbuttoned and her hair's down from it's typical loose bun in which she affixes it during duty hours.
And really, where would he be? De-pinned and removed from the flight roster, Lt. McQueen has taken refuge in the quietest of places, which is a bit of an odd stretch when one considers his generally loud, vocal personality. The ship's Libary, his nose buried in a hack crime novel. One of those cheap pulp jobs, full of manufactured half-truths about the investigative process. Unfortunately, this one doesn't have a happy ending. He's slumped in an armchair, staring at it blankly.
Quarry located. Cidra moves through the library quietly once she's spotted McQueen. The woman can tread lightly for someone who habitually walks around in combat boots. "Queenie." The greeting, of sorts, is uttered before she's too close. She's not actively trying to startle him. Head tilts at the novel. Eying the title. "One for the classics, are you?" Tone dry.
"Mmmph. Hard to think that one of the great tragedies of the death of human civilization is they'll be printing no more of /this/ shite." McQueen's voice intones softly, barely over a mutter. He sets the book down, face-open and his nose twitches as he glances up at her with a gentle tilt of his head.
"Have you figured out who 'dun' it, yet?" Cidra asks. Putting a wry little emphasis on the mangled word. She pulls up a chair and sits down next to him, head tilting, blue eyes regarding him. Just looking, in that appraising way she has of fixing people with at times. It's hard to get a bead on precisely what she's thinking. She just watches him, awaiting an answer to her glib little question.
"It was a suicide." McQueen just totally spoiled the ending, flipping the novel over onto the end table and holding up his hands, palms turned upwards. "Three people ended up taking a fall for it, though. Murder, inprisonment, more murder." Smiling slyly, he follows up with a conspiratorial whisper. "I've already read it, once before, y'see."
"Ah." That's Cidra's immediate response to the plot, lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. "Well, I am sure whoever wrote it thought they were being original. I was never much for the crime novels, myself. I prefer poetry. Do you read Kataris? Usually I do not care for the Caprican poets, but I have always found much gratification in contemplating his work." Still, she regards him. "You have had much time for reading these last days."
"I read it in school to get in a girl's pants." McQueen continues, slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms behind the back of his head and reclining a bit. "I guess I owed the old man one, 'cause it worked." He snaps off a brief wink. "Nothing is original, depending on how you look at things. And then to answer your question? Yeh, that's what I've been doing."
Cidra makes another low, "Ah." Smirking ever-so-faintly. "Well, you are far from the only man who can say that." There's a ruefully wistful quality to her tone as she notes that. No more questions about how he's been spending his off-duty time. She simply digs into her pockets, fishing out a pair of pins. His pins. They are set on the table between them.
"I'm proud to say I stand tall and proud in the ranks of humanity." McQueen says, smirking slightly, his face twitching once more as he drifts from the discarded book to the pins placed alongside there. "What's this for?" He inquires, a little cautiously and distantly "Is this what I get for not opening my mouth and making a bigger hole o' myself, Sir?"
Cidra just keeps looking at McQueen in that mild, vaguely appraising way of hers. "Oh, come now, Trevor." Likely the first time she's used his given name. Though she does it without any awkwardness. "We are Navy men and women in a time of war. Do you think you can go from this so easily? As for your…holeness…" Dry, that. "Colonel Pewter as declared a general amnesty for actions taken during the detainment of Rear Admiral Abbot." His title is still used with all the military respect, despite all that's happened. "But that is near beside the point. I want you back on the flight line. I need you back."
Nodding along with Cidra's response, there is a bit of weighing of the Major's words on the part of McQueen. Whatever he thinks of Pewter, or Pewter's amnesty, he keeps his thoughts to himself and his mood carefully composed. It is only when she moves to her last point, the flight line, or his lack of presence, that his rough fingers splay open and close upon the discarded pins, scooping them up. "Now you're speakin' my language, sir. That was all you needed to say. Think I rather like flyin', yeh?" He smiles tentatively up at her.
Cidra's smile widens at that. Even touching her cloudy blue eyes. "We shall be returning to Leonis in the coming days. It shall be difficult and I shall need my best Viper sticks. We shall fly together, Queenie, and dance like furies among the stars and skies." Hard to tell if that was poetry of scripture she reached for the quote from. Her voice reverberates with a sort of concentrated enthusiasm as she speaks of flying, however. Below Cidra's sometimes overly-composed surface lurks as much a speedy jockey as the rest of them.
"Heh heh. Going home. Guess there's no avoidin' it." McQueen chuckles in a rough, dry fashion as he starts buckling on the pins. "Well, we'll see what comes from this, yeh? This time we'll do it clean. No mistakes. Other than the ones the Cylons make. I think they've made a bloody few already."
"Clean and quick. Always my preference. Never quite as simple as it sounds, but I have confidence we can see it through," Cidra says. She stands. Leaving the pins on the table for him. "I trust you will be wearing those tomorrow. I shall be putting you back in the CAP rotation, and I do not abide tardiness."
"There's nothing that is ever simple, as much as you or I or bloody well /anyone/'d like to think, yeah? That's what keeps us off-balance. Maybe it's what makes us great." McQueen observes idly as he finishes snapping the pins in place, flashing his teeth ever-so-slightly. "Oh, I'll be there. I was running out of things to do anyway." He nudges the book. "As I said. Already read this. So we'll be having a grand ol' briefing, yeh?"
"Grand as they ever are," Cidra replies in that same mildly dry sort of way. She does not go right away. Eyeing the book. As if committing the title to her memory. "I have not read this one, myself. Perhaps I should have a look at it the next time I am in. I need a break from Kataris every now and again. In any case. I shall see you on the flightline." And with that, she slips off.
"Uh. Sorry I spoiled the ending, Sir. Guess that's what I do." McQueen's voice is ever-so-slightly apologetic as he holds up his hands. "Don't think I ever say this much. But — thanks. Be seein' you, Major." He even rises from his chair and snaps off a salute as the CAG departs.